


Maybe

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fantasy, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Nightmares, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 07:50:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4471238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can't sleep; he's interrupted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe

It's the middle of the night, and John isn't sure what it is that makes him stir, but he hears the stairs up to his room creak quietly under the weight of a (too-thin) consulting detective, hears the quiet whoosh of displaced air as he pushes open John's bedroom door.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, and he hovers at the end of John's bed, shirtless; in the darkness of John's room, with the only dim light filtering in around the curtain from one of the street lamps outside, he looks almost luminous – he never tans, and he looks inhumanly pale. “Are you awake?”

“Sherlock?” John asks blearily, rubbing at one eye as he sits up in bed. Sherlock takes a step forwards, and John realizes, with a sort of sudden shock, that his best friend isn't wearing anything below his waist either. “Sherlock!” John hisses, mildly scandalized, but despite himself he can't make himself look away.

Sherlock looks nervous for a few moments, standing still, and then he says, in the quietest voice John's ever heard him use - “Sorry. Couldn't sleep.” And of course. Sherlock sleeps naked, only wears pyjamas around the house, and given that he's a _virgin_ , so Mycroft says, John guesses he doesn't really see any reason to be shy.

“Didn't think you _did_ sleep,” John says sharply, and Sherlock stares at him, squaring his marble jaw. “Sorry,” John murmurs after a moment, and then says, “Do you, um, need something?” Sherlock hesitates, gaze flickering over John's body (John suppresses a shiver), and then, very slowly, he shakes his head. He swallows, taking a step back, but John stops him short, “Did you have a nightmare?”

“Yeah.” is the simple answer, quiet and simple and as revealing as it needs to be.

And he can't _honestly_ have come to John's bed in the middle of the night after a nightmare, wanting to share John's bed, share his heat, but John's heart skips a beat at the idea of the other man in bed with him, at the idea of Sherlock's too-cold feet touching John's own – how different would they look, lying side by side? Nude and clothed, tall and short, willowy and stocky--

“You could, um, come sleep with me. If that helps.” John shouldn't offer. He shouldn't encourage intimacy from Sherlock, not when Sherlock's not interested in sex or anything, not when John finds himself looking at Sherlock too often, not when John isn't even _gay_ \--

But then, Irene's _meant_ to be gay. Maybe it's just _Sherlock._

Sherlock slides forwards like he was waiting for the invitation, curling on his side facing John with the covers awkwardly tangled around his ankles and his thighs, and John looks back at him before slowly lying on his back again, turning his head slightly to look at him. Sherlock's eyes soon close shut, and once they are, once Sherlock's eyes are closed and his breathing begins to slow, John can't help but look.

He's seen it before, of course, seen Sherlock wander around the house when he's forgotten clothes are a custom in modern civilization, but he's not been able to just _look_ , not like this. Sherlock's cock is soft against his thigh, the hair around it neatly trimmed; it's maybe a little below average in girth, but the length looks _satisfying_ , and John can't help but think of taking Sherlock in his mouth, can't help but wonder what Sherlock would do if he woke up with himself buried in John's throat. What sort of _noises_ would he make?

“John.” The soldier's head whips to the side once more, and Sherlock meets his gaze, but the look is more intense now, concentrated, his eyes dark. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing.” He says it a little too quickly, and Sherlock leans forwards – for a bizarre, surreal second John thinks the other man's going to _bite_ him, but it doesn't happen; Sherlock just comes closer, crawls over the mattress with a sort of inhuman grace that shouldn't be _possible_ for an actual person on his hands and knees, and as Sherlock puts one hand on the board above John's head, the other settling beside his shoulder, John feels his heart begin to beat a little faster. Sherlock _looms_ over him in the darkness, one half of his face silhouetted and exaggerated by the dim light and the shadow, and for some reason John feels exhilarated instead of scared. “Sherlock?”

“You want me.” Sherlock _whispers_ the words with a sort of threatening promise, and the shyness he'd put on a moment ago is completely gone now, and John realizes with a sinking feeling that the nightmare was all an _act_ – but he's not worried. He trusts Sherlock, trusts him implicitly, even when he feels like Sherlock might tear out his throat at any moment.

“I'm not gay,” John says. By now, it's a reflex.

“Didn't say you were,” Sherlock murmurs, and he leans, catching John in a kiss; Sherlock's good at this, good at drawing their lips together without adding too much tongue, but it's even better when Sherlock's thigh draws between John's legs and presses against his own prick through the thin cotton of his pyjama bottoms. “Just said you want me. Do you, John?” Sherlock's rolling his hips, rolling his hips against John's leg, and Sherlock's cock is hard and thickening against the fabric of John's trousers and John can't _breathe_.

He just nods, mutely, desperately, as his mouth goes dry and his tongue freezes in his mouth, because Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes is grinding himself against John's leg, and he's letting out the tiniest little gasps and whines, his eyes shutting closed as his head tips back and he rolls his hips down.

He's going to come. He's going to come, grinding against John's leg like a-

“ _John_.” John freezes. “You are aware that I _can_ hear you moaning like that?” John draws his hand suddenly away from his cock like a schoolboy caught wanking in the dormitories, even though he knows Sherlock is _downstairs_ , in his bedroom, and that he can't actually **see** John.

“I thought you were out!” John retorts.

“Wank more quietly!” is Sherlock's only irritable response, and John hears him stomp around downstairs, presumably off to bed himself. John closes his eyes, pushing his heel against the base of his cock to try and soothe it down.

He's _not_ gay. He's _not_ attracted to Sherlock bloody Holmes. It’s a _fantasy_ – it's perfectly healthy, perfectly normal.

Maybe.

 


End file.
